I still can’t quite believe it when my flight is called at the gate. I won’t be completely sure I’m off until the plane gathers speed. But the line forms and we pass through, onto the shuttle bus and then arrive at the aircraft. I take my window seat, get comfortable and lean back. Yalla Israel - I’ll miss you but it’s really time to hit the road…
The silence from Dizengoff now feels overwhelming. When your ears are assaulted by urban noise on a daily basis, you learn to adjust. Anyone who’s ever lived in the centre of Manhattan, London or Berlin will tell you the same. Horns blaring, buses roaring by, pedestrians chatting, neighbours yelling and bikes revving - it’s all par for the course here…
I am stopping to notice things I never did before - ornate facades, beautiful stonework, the glamour of the…street and - as I’ve said before - its magnificent, sweeping curve, of which I could never tire. There are few others here and they, like me, are amazed. Some are walking in the very centre of the street (normally, this would be akin to taking your life in your hands), in search of unusual photographic opportunities…
And then I catch sight of - a pick axe. Yes, you read me right. A huge pick-axe, slap bang in the middle of the pavement. Steve and I both stop dead in our tracks. We stare in astonishment. This is a peaceful-tree-lined suburb where the cheapest houses go for over a million quid. This is really not what you expect in such a genteel neighbourhood!
Soho is now silent. Its streets are practically deserted. Cafes, restaurants and bars are shuttered and, in many cases, boarded up. Much like Oxford Street, Carnaby Street and Regent Street, it has an abandoned air to it. - the odd cyclist, the woman walking her dog, the guy with the camera, taking the obligatory ‘lockdown’ photos…I can count them on one hand as I walk the streets…
On this stretch of the walk, there’s plenty of evidence of the once-railway line - including platforms and old benches. Now, it’s incredibly green and verdant, and you can hear the birds chirping and feel how clean the air is. As you walk further along, you spy real life evidence of the old train line, in the form of benches and old platforms.
We soon develop a routine, Larry and I (Rita loves me but she’s rather more independent). He wakes me each morning at 7,30, bumping his head against my face. After I’ve staggered up to the kitchen and made coffee, we read the headlines together. (Larry’s concerned as I am at the way the government are completely cocking up this crisis).
As far as I’m concerned, anyone looking to film a few creepy scenes for a horror movie need look no further than London Underground’s Kings Cross.Empty stairs, deserted concourses, eerily quiet platforms, tubes carrying only key workers, of course, elevators that swish and whir along, but with no commuters on them. Behold the beauty of Kings Cross, devoid of people.
Usually, you’ll see here buskers, hobos, locals and commuters….not to mention the endless tourists arriving and departing. Today it is almost deserted. The streets are almost empty of cars (the roads are usually packed bumper to bumper). Occasionally, a bus drives past (they are transporting key workers to hospitals and places of work). But they have few passengers…
More cyclists go by. I feel as if I’m in a parallel universe, where the majority of humans have been wiped off the face of the planet and I’m one of the few survivors, wandering through a deserted metropolis. Back on Regent Street (which, incidentally, seems more beautiful than ever, now it is devoid of people) I see someone else (with a mask) taking photographs…
